Heroes of Heartbreak Creek 02 (5 page)

“You talked to her for a long time,” Thomas said.

Startled out of his reverie, Rafe looked over at him.

“The woman watching from the shadows.”

“You knew she was there?”

Thomas shrugged. “I am Cheyenne.”

Hoping to change the subject, Rafe nodded to the book in Thomas’s hands. “How’s your book?”

“I do not like it. And I do not understand why these white people fight each other over lands that are not theirs.”

“Probably for the same reason Indians fight other tribes over hunting grounds that aren’t theirs. Greed.”

The Cheyenne glared at him.

“Everybody wants more of something, Thomas. Food, land, wealth, women. Greed is what moves the world.”

“What is it you want, Rayford Jessup?”

Rafe thought for a moment. “Peace. And a patch of ground with good grass and water.”

“In Heartbreak Creek?”

“Maybe.”

“Will you fight for it?”

“I’ll buy it.”

“And who will you buy it from,
ve’ho’e—
white man?”

Seeing from the Indian’s expression that this discussion was headed into a dead end, Rafe gave up and held out his hand. “Sorry you don’t like the book. Give it back and I’ll try to find one more to your liking.”

Thomas shook his head. “I want to know who wins.” He started to say more when the door opened and Ash walked in.

Rafe could tell by his expression that something was troubling him. Sitting up, he swung his feet to the floor. “What’s wrong?”

“My wife. The lass says nothing is amiss, but I can see her food isna sitting well and she sleeps too much. Tricks is faring no better. Puir lad doesna like being cooped up in the hold. It was selfish of me to bring them along.”

The Scot paced the length of the narrow room, then back again. “Likely she’s upset to be going back. Being English, she has no great love for Scotland.” Stopping at the window, he stood, hands clasped behind his back, feet braced to compensate for the sway of the ship. “As soon as we dock, I’ll take her to London to see her publisher at the
Illustrated London News
.
Perhaps if she sees the progress Chesterfield has made on the bound book he’s making of her photographs, she’ll come out of her melancholy. If not, I’ll take her to a doctor.”

He turned, his face grim. “Rafe, go on to Penrith as planned. I’ll come as soon as we’re finished in London. That will give you a chance to look over Cathcart’s stock and decide if any are worth having. Thomas, I want you with me. I must attend other business while in London, and I canna leave the countess with only Tricks and that gowk, Pringle, for protection.”

“There will be trouble?” Thomas’s eyes brightened in anticipation.

“One never knows. The English are a treacherous lot, so they are.”

Rafe frowned. “But aren’t Scotland and England part of the same country?”

“No’ in any way that matters.”

 • • • 

The remainder of the voyage passed slowly for Rafe. Because of the countess’s unsettled health, the Wallaces took their meals either in their stateroom or at a small, secluded table at the back of the first-class dining room. Since that left Rafe and Thomas on their own, they usually ate in their cabin, rather than go to the bother of changing into their fancy clothes just to eat dinner.

The one time they did dress up, Rafe saw Miss Cathcart seated at a prominent table with other wealthy travelers. That rigid expression was back on her face, although her eyes did light up for the moment their gazes met across the crowded room. At least, he thought they did. He saw no sign of her accoster, Calhoun.

Restless and bored, Rafe prowled the deck, hoping for another chance meeting with her, but never saw Miss Cathcart on the promenade again. He wasn’t sure why he was so intent on seeing her. Perhaps her distress over the horses had touched him more than he’d thought. Or maybe he simply missed the company of a pretty woman. Whatever the reason, it created a restlessness within him that kept him awake long into the night.

On the last day of the crossing, they were all impatiently pacing the deck, desperate to reach solid ground again. Even Pringle braved the fresh air—assigned the task of walking Tricks—and was an amusing sight, being dragged helplessly along as the wolfhound raced along the railing, his nose to the wind.

But the countess showed less anticipation than resignation. And as the pale purple shadows of Ireland and England drew steadily nearer, Rafe noticed she seemed to withdraw into herself more and more. Remembering what Ash had said about her reluctance to return, Rafe hoped that was the cause of her melancholy, and not a return of her earlier illness.

“I explained to Cathcart that you’ll be arriving in Penrith alone,” Ash said to Rafe as they made another circuit. “And that the countess and I will follow after we conclude our business in London. When I told him you were traveling on horseback, he offered to take your trunk in his carriage. If that’s acceptable, have the steward deliver it to their stateroom before we dock.”

“Or I could send it with you.” Rafe had planned on traveling light. Anything he couldn’t do without he could roll in his duster and tie to the saddle.

“You’ll be expected to wear your new suit at dinner,” the countess reminded him with a look of sympathy.

“And talk,” Thomas added with that smirk.

There went his plan to stay at the stable with the other wranglers.

“Come, lad.” Ash gave his shoulder a friendly punch. “Will it be so bad dining with the lovely Miss Cathcart?”

“And talking.”

Hell.

By the time the
Oceanic
docked and the mooring lines were secured, it was late afternoon, yet the port still teemed with sailors, travelers, and bustling stevedores unloading cargo from the many ships lined up at the wharves. Place smelled like a fish dump.

The earl had sent word of their arrival date on a fast mail steamer, asking his solicitor, Colin MacPherson, to meet the ship. Now, as they waited for the gangplank to be lowered, he scanned the faces onshore.

“There he is.” The countess pointed to a robust man wearing a dark suit and bushy red muttonchops who stood beside two coaches at the front of the line of waiting carriages. “He hasn’t changed at all in the four years I’ve been gone.”

“Colin was at university with me,” Ash explained to Rafe and Thomas. “MacPhersons have been the Kirkwell solicitors since my grandfather’s time.” Dropping his voice so that Pringle wouldn’t hear, he added, “He is also one of the few outside of Heartbreak Creek who know of my affliction.”

“It’s not an affliction,” his wife murmured, patting the thick arm she held. “It’s a slight difficulty with reading. No more.”

“Slight?” Ash grinned down at her. “’Tis like trying to decipher a plate full of wiggling worms.”

The countess swallowed weakly.

“Sorry, love. Forget I said that.”

As soon as they stepped off the gangplank, MacPherson approached, a big grin splitting his ruddy face. “Welcome home, Lord Kirkwell. Lady Kirkwell.”

“I thank you for meeting us, Colin.”

After introducing Thomas and Rafe and Pringle, Ash motioned them along as he steered his wife after MacPherson toward the two coaches. Men in fancy green livery were already loading their luggage onto the top of the plainer of the two carriages, while a coachman stood at attention beside the open door of the other—a black-lacquered, two-horse four-wheeler with a crest on the side.

“’Tis good to have ye home, milord,” the coachman said, tipping his hat.

“Thank you, John. How go things at Northbridge?”

“Verra well, milord. Your sister and the McKenzie are planning a grand welcome, so they are.”

“It may have to wait a few days. Do you mind if Tricks rides up front? He’s smelling a bit strong, and the countess is feeling poorly.”

“No’ at all, milord. I’ve missed the lad, and the fresh air will do him good. When we stop for the night, I’ll give him a good run.”

As the coachman helped situate Lady Kirkwell and Tricks, Ash told the solicitor about their altered plans. Resting a hand on Rafe’s shoulder, he added, “Since the lad, here, is traveling alone to Penrith, he’ll need a horse and map.”

“Of course. I’ll make arrangements at the inn where we’re staying tonight.”

Rafe, Thomas, and Pringle moved on to the second coach. Thomas arrived first and insisted on riding topside with the coachman. Rafe would have joined him had there been room. But when he grudgingly took his place inside with the ever-dour Pringle, he consoled himself that he would be on horseback soon, while Thomas would be stuck on a coach for a long while yet.

As they began to move, Rafe looked out the window to see his trunk being lashed atop a carriage that was even more elaborate than the one carrying the Kirkwells. Yet despite Cathcart’s show of wealth, men didn’t doff their caps and step aside the way they did when the earl walked by. Rafe sensed that sign of respect had more to do with the man than with wealth or status.

Miss Cathcart stood at the carriage door, looking regal and unapproachable in deep blue, her narrow waist set off by the tight-fitting jacket, and a jaunty hat set atop her sleek deep brown hair. Yet the expression she wore wasn’t that of a haughty miss leading a pampered life, but rather that of a woman who had suffered and now bore the scars of that hard experience like a coat of armor.

He curbed his curiosity to know why. She had wealth, position, beauty. Probably the greatest calamity she faced was a stain on her glove.

Another reminder to Rafe that he was an outsider in an unfamiliar world—one of privilege, rigid protocol, and a very different set of standards than those back home. A wrangler and battered ex-lawman had no place here, and wouldn’t be welcomed into elite circles. He would have to watch his step.

And dress up for dinner.

Hell.

R
ound shafts of sunlight shining through the bullet-pocked door. Voices calling in the street.

With a groan, Rafe leaned up on one elbow to peer over the sill of the shattered window. He couldn’t see them, but he heard them. Inching closer.

He slumped back, willed away the spots circling behind his eyes. “Leave,” he said to the woman huddled in the corner. “They’re coming.”

When she didn’t move, he waved weakly toward the rear door. “Go, Miranda. Now.”

Weeping. Terror in her honey brown eyes. “I didn’t expect him to do this, Rafe. How was I to know?”

He didn’t want to hear it. “Just go.”

A last, lingering look, her eyes wide with fear, then she whirled and dashed through the door.

Boot heels thudding on the boardwalk. One set. Three. Maybe four.

Pressing his free hand over the seeping hole in his chest, he lifted the Colt. Aimed at the doorway. Fought to keep his hand steady.

The door burst open.

With a cry, he rose up, teeth clenched, his hand jerking as he squeezed the trigger again and again and—

The shouts stopped. The smell of blood and spent powder wafted through his mind, then faded. Silence.

Sensing a presence, Rafe twisted to see a man standing over him. He blinked in confusion. Thomas.

“Wh-What are you doing?” Rafe demanded in a wobbly voice, wondering why he was sitting upright in the bed, his hand raised.

“You called out.”

“I did? I was . . . I thought . . .” He looked at his empty hand. At his chest. Around the unfamiliar room. No gun, no blood, no bodies twitching on the floor.

He sagged back, his mind in chaos, his heart drumming in his chest. Not Dirtwater, Texas. The inn in Liverpool.

Dreaming. That’s all.

“What is wrong?” Thomas asked, stepping closer.

“N-Nothing.” He took a deep breath, let it out. “A bad dream. That’s all.”

“It has happened before.”

“It has? Why didn’t you wake me?”

“I once suffered such dreams. This will help.” He held up a strip of leather from which hung a twig bent in the shape of a hoop. Across the inside of the hoop was a web of fine threads, and attached along the outside were dangling feathers and beads and carved bits of antler.

It looked like something a big cat might have coughed up. “What is it?” Rafe asked, sitting up and swinging his feet to the floor.

“
Ianbla gmunka.
A dream snare.” Thomas thrust it into Rafe’s hand. “Good dreams move through the holes in the web, down the feathers, and into your sleep. Evil dreams are too big and stay trapped in the threads until the light of the rising sun kills them.”

Rafe recognized some of the beads and carvings from Thomas’s war shirt. “You made this?”

Thomas shrugged. “Hang it over your bed. It will protect you. And give better rest to those stuck in the room with you.”

Seeing the Cheyenne’s rare smile eased some of the tension. “Thanks.”

A loud knock, then Ash’s voice called, “Muster. Twenty minutes.”

Thirty minutes later, they were all gathered outside the inn while the earl issued his final instructions. Commands, was more like it. The Scotsman might never again wear the uniform, but he would always be military. “Dismissed,” he concluded, waving the others toward the coaches as a groom brought out a saddle horse for Rafe. “And Pringle, for the love of Saint Andrew, quit hovering. Go assist the countess if you lack something to do!”

“Thomas, wait,” Rafe called, hurrying to catch the Cheyenne before he climbed into the driver’s box of the second coach.

“Ho. Do you miss me already, white man?”

“When Ash takes Maddie to visit her publisher, go with them. Ask him if he has books about American Indians. Especially books dealing with tribal legends.”

“What is ‘legends’?”

“Stories passed down through the years that explain the beliefs of your people. Those that are shared around the campfire, or used to teach your children. Like the one about the dream snare. You have a lot of stories like that?”

Thomas nodded.

“See if Mr. Chesterfield has a book about them. If he doesn’t, ask him if he wants one.”

Excitement lit the Cheyenne’s dark eyes. “There is such a book?”

“Not yet. I’m hoping he’ll ask you to write one for him.”

“Me? Write a book?”

“Why not? Just tell the stories as you know them. I’ll help you write them down.” When the Indian didn’t respond, Rafe pressed harder. “You’re not afraid to ask him, are you?”

Thomas snorted at the notion.

“And when you go see him,” Rafe hurried on, seeing the coachman of the earl’s carriage snap the whip over his matched bays, “be sure to look like a Cheyenne warrior.”

“I am a Cheyenne warrior.”

“Wear your war shirt. Take your axe and knife and anything else you have that marks you as a Dog Soldier. You cut quite a figure in your native clothing.”

“I know.”

The earl’s carriage rolled out of the yard.

“Are you coming or not?” the driver of Thomas’s coach called down.

The Indian gave him a glare that took the color from the coachman’s face, then he turned back to Rafe. “I will think about what you have said, Rayford Jessup. Sleep well,
hovahe
.”

Rafe had heard Thomas use that word in Heartbreak Creek and was pleased to see he’d moved from
ve’ho’e—
white man—to
hovahe—
friend. “Travel safe, Thomas.”

 • • • 

Heavy gray clouds and a chill wind followed Rafe through boggy valleys and rocky hills on the three-day ride from Liverpool to the quaint little market town of Kendal. After another dreamless night—thanks to Thomas’s snare—and a huge breakfast, he set out on the fourth morning for the small town of Penrith.

His nights might be dreamless, but his daytime thoughts kept circling back to Miss Cathcart. Which surprised him. They had little in common. Divided not only by an ocean, but also by station in life, their differences were vast. Yet her despair over losing her horses had moved him in an unexpected way. Still moved him—even to the extent that as he made his solitary way through the misty English countryside, his mind kept trying to devise ways to lessen that despair.

It was a habit from his marshal days when he’d thought every wrong could be righted and every lost soul could be saved. He had since learned that some things were never meant to be, no matter how strong his feelings were. And a deeper connection to Miss Cathcart was one of them.

His map indicated he was heading into the southern part of the Lake District, reputed to be one of the most beautiful areas of England—although it was hard to see much of it through the thick mist as he left Kendal the next morning. Following the River Kent, he rode past the ruins of old buildings and fallen castles toward the woodlands, mountains, and lakes of southern Cumberland.

Certainly not mountains on the scale of the Rockies, or as overpowering as the peaks and canyons around Heartbreak Creek, but impressive nonetheless. And green. Had the day been clearer, he might have had some inspiring views. Yet even mired in fog, it was interesting country—starkly barren on the rocky ridges, then dropping into tall forests and lush valleys riddled with emerald lakes. Good horse country if the sun ever came out.

Hunched against the soupy drizzle, he followed the waterways past small, neat farms and rolling green pastures bordered by stacked rock fences. Finally, on the afternoon of the fourth day after leaving Liverpool, he rode out of the Lake District and several miles past the town of Penrith to the pillared stone entrance of the Cathcart estate.

The house was a huge limestone monument to lavish spending, stretching five stories high, with a wing reaching out on one side, a portico on the other, and at least a half-dozen gables in the slate roof. A forest of chimneys poked into the low clouds, and there was even a peaked tower on one corner.

No wonder Miss Cathcart was melancholy, having to ramble around in such an oversized place. He guessed she hadn’t been the one to design it.

But the stables were as fine as any Rafe had ever seen. Gratified that the animals lived as grandly as their owners, he angled toward the long, low building made of the same gray stone as the house and surrounded by grassy pastures and neatly fenced paddocks.

When he rode up, a barrel-chested man with more hair on his chin than his head came out of the open center aisle. Rafe dismounted and introduced himself, adding that he had come to look over the horses that Cathcart had for sale.

The man gave his name as Liam Hammersmith, head groom. He had an accent similar to Ash’s, and a handshake that could crack a handful of Texas pecans. “Best run along, then, lad. They’ll be looking for ye up at the house.”

Rafe had hoped to bunk in the stable, but apparently that wasn’t likely. “Front door or back?”

The groom frowned down at Rafe’s mud-spattered boots and soggy duster. “Back would be best, I’m thinking.”

Rafe agreed. He was hardly dressed in visiting attire. And certainly not in any condition to present himself to Miss Cathcart. But since all his clean clothes were in the trunk delivered here several days ago, there was no help for it.

“Back door it is then.”

“Be sure to tell them who ye are,” Hammersmith advised as Rafe untied his saddlebags from the skimpy pancake-sized saddle that had come with the gelding MacPherson had procured for him in Liverpool. “Cook is a scrapper and Shipley—he’s the butler—can be summat harsh toward strangers.”

Rafe nodded. Slinging his saddlebags over his shoulder, he left his weary horse in Hammersmith’s care and trudged toward the imposing gray house perched like a giant Texas blue tick atop the hill.

Hopefully, he hadn’t missed supper.

 • • • 

“Who’s that?” Father asked, shifting his attention from the paperwork strewn across his desk to the tall window facing the side garden.

Setting her book aside, Josephine rose and went to look out. A man in a long coat was coming up the path from the stables. Even though his face was hidden by the wide brim of the Western-style hat he wore, she recognized the long legs and purposeful stride.

“It’s Mr. Jessup,” she said, ignoring a sudden flutter in her chest.

“Kirkwell’s man? You’re sure?”

“Quite.” She would know the man anywhere, having thought of him far too often over the last days, anticipating his arrival with both excitement and dread.

Peering around the heavy velvet drape, she watched him walk past the rose beds and side veranda toward the back of the house. Where was he going?

Behind her, papers rustled. Father’s desk drawer opened and closed. “Remember what I told you.”

Face composed, she faced him. “Refresh my memory.” She wanted to hear him say it again—needed the words to fuel her simmering resentment at being used so poorly. Hopefully, if she heard often enough how little he regarded her as anything other than a tool to be used to further his own purposes, this nagging sense of loyalty she still felt for her father would eventually fade.

A hardened heart felt no pain.

“You know what to do, daughter. Distract him. Play up to him. Tease him a bit. I saw the way he watched you on board ship. Use that interest to win him over to our side, so he will convince the earl to meet our price.”

“Shall I play the tart for him, Father? I am, after all, so very good at it.”

His big fist slammed on the desktop, startling her. “Watch your mouth, girl! This is your future at stake, too. And Jamie’s.”

“Of course.”

“You’ll do as you’re told,” he went on. “And that’s an end to it.”

A knock on the door saved her from responding.

With a last glare aimed her way, her father smoothed back his thinning gray hair and shook off his anger like a dog shedding water. “Enter, Shipley.”

The butler stepped into the room, his dour face more disapproving than usual. “There is a person at the rear entrance, sir. I tried to turn him away but he refuses to leave without a trunk he said you brought from Liverpool. He was quite adamant about it. And foreign. An American, I believe.”

“Jessup.” With a nod of satisfaction, Father rose.

“I’ll take care of it, Father.” Moving toward the door, Josephine smiled sweetly at the scowling butler. “Have one of the upstairs maids freshen the blue bedroom, would you please, Shipley? And send a footman up to prepare a bath. Oh, and be sure to inform Cook that we’ll have another guest for dinner.”

Shipley gave a ponderous sigh, making evident yet again his disappointment in his lowborn employers. “Yes, Miss Cathcart.”

Mr. Jessup was munching on a muffin when Josephine walked into the kitchen. When he saw her, he passed the muffin plate back to Cook with a smile of thanks—which made the kitchen maids titter—dusted his hands, then removed his hat. “Miss Cathcart,” he said, gazing down at her with that same unwavering intensity he had shown during their chat on the ship.

“Welcome, Mr. Jessup.” She held out her hand.

His grip swallowed hers. Again without the protection of gloves, she felt anew the warmth of his skin, the roughness of calluses across his palm, the crushing strength in the fingers that held hers so gently. A workingman’s hands. Well used and capable. Vastly different from those of the pampered gentlemen she knew. It made her feel almost demure, which was absurd considering her height.

“I apologize for the confusion.” Pulling free of his grip, she motioned toward the butler hovering in the doorway. “I neglected to inform Shipley that you might arrive early. If you’ll come with me, I’ll show you to your room.”

He followed without speaking. Yet she could sense his presence behind her. The sound of his boot heels against the tiled floor, the rustle of fabric as his coat brushed against his trousers, the faint smell of horses and damp wool.

She wondered if he was looking at her, assessing her figure from behind as they climbed the stairs. The thought unsettled her, drove her to fill the silence.

“Your ride from Liverpool went well, Mr. Jessup?”